the forlorn echo of wind

barreling down a deserted avenue

blanketed in a shimmery layer

of undisturbed powder

of thieving silence and darkness

reminisces of a time

called poetry and a people

named hardship, paid in

poverty and stooped backs

and lung disease and short lives

sacrificing for the man in the mansion

and the bottom line except when striking

in the lines in the cold in the snow

men and boys working life without parole

wives mixing crusted pillows

of heat and home for tomorrow's

journey to deep, dark, damp

dusty boots darken the fresh sugar coating

of dreams and desires to get to

that precious pipe in the wall, illuminated

by three flickers, and all day clink clinking

quelling the soul's treacherous uprising

the only escape: to leave this

world - and body - behind.

How odd it came by trampling.